We sat trying not to touch hands.
But a moment did occur
when I felt her soft fingers dance across
in a rush of conversation
about old books and poems.
I gave her a book of poetry
that was pressed in 1858.
She read to me
a poem about a woman
trying to dig up her life
while burying her husband.
Between sips of ginger tea
she read more words--
beautiful touching words.
And every so often, between the lines,
her fingers gently graced mine.
